


To Each His Own

by THA_THUMPP



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: ...maybe, Alternate Universe - Silent Hill Fusion, Convict Daryl, Cop/Con, DJ T-Dog, Endings In Silent Hill Are Never Happy, Ghosts, M/M, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Police Officer Rick, Prison Gay, Survivor Guilt, Tenant Dale, Waitress Beth, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-14 00:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3401162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl Dixon was sentenced to life in prison for a crime he didn't commit. On the day of his transfer to another state facility, the bus crashes and only Daryl miraculously escapes... well, <em>almost</em> escapes. He's found and rearrested by an out-of-state deputy who witnessed the accident, Rick Grimes. However, the officer's been wounded pretty badly from his own slip-up, and Daryl ends up saving the cop's ass to keep a clear conscience. But once they make it further into town in comes the reality check.</p><p>The world they know is no longer alive, and now, differences aside, Daryl and Rick must work together to survive. A walk in the park, right? That's what Daryl thought, and god... was he <em>so</em> wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Each His Own

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on Silent Hill: Downpour. (No, you don't have to be a fan of the SH series, or have played any to follow this fanfiction.)
> 
> We never really finished the game when it first came out and randomly decided to pop it in last weekend and create a new game to restart from the very beginning. Sadly, we didn't get any farther than when we first started because we were compelled to stop and write this fanfiction instead. With that said, SH1 & 2 are - as of right now - still our favs. Although Silent Hills does look mighty promising. Booyah.
> 
>   
> 

Nobody was surprised when Daryl Dixon was charged with first-degree murder. Daryl himself didn’t even bat an eye when given an unfair trial in court. His hometown was kinda known for that, locking its problems away and expecting them to sort themselves out behind closed doors. He hated home as much as he hated family, which was saying something between blood.

By the time Daryl was in his mid twenties, his shithead brother had a rap sheet longer than his arm. Vandalism, possession of drugs, battery, insulting an officer of the law. Some example he was. Merle caused more trouble than he could afford, across state lines, in a few different counties. There wasn’t a man on earth that could stand against him, not even Daryl. He knew better than to run his mouth at a grizzly.

So as the saying went, _if ya can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em_.

When Daryl turned thirty he had a reputation of his own. But all his crimes were mostly stupid stuff. One-nighters in jail, sprung the next day. Merle was jealous every time and Daryl never really heard the end of it. Out during hunts were the worst, with nobody for miles Merle could call him what whatever the hell he wanted. Bacon’s little bitch, no brother of mine. He sounded more like their father than he wanted to admit.

Only, like a duck Daryl let it all slide.

Merle’s abuse was a lot easier to take than the strap, always ending with ringing ears from the yelling and black eyes from the punches. Tough love, that was what Merle called it after each blow, using the cooldown to remind him how he needed to _man up n’ grow a pair_ , ordering him to _harness that anger n’ use it fer strength_. Daryl took it all with a straight face, knowing too well that this was also Merle’s way of letting loose his squirreled frustration without having to deal with the consequences.

Except there _were_ consequences.

Daryl closed in on his feelings at thirty-nine, burying them in the nether regions of his mind like a dog. He didn’t need ‘em, he told himself, he was better off without ‘em. The scars on his back were reminders enough, permanent warnings of what emotion could do. Merle had his share of beatings too, but he was always the type to deal like a champ. It was only after their pop’s death that he learned to confront the bull, telling Daryl how they weren’t victims but survivors, that they weren’t branded but now had beauty marks, something to be proud of and flashed like tits.

But that was all bullshit.

The damage was done, the memories shaped, and there was no righting those wrongs. Daryl wouldn’t even pretend to try, and when Merle got on his case about it, he stopped listening all together and put his foot down. It was Daryl’s idea that they split ways for a couple months, but once he heard Merle was hospitalized for nearly hacking his own hand off while under the influence of some new street narcotic, he went crawling back with grit teeth.

After that, it was only loneliness that held them together. But like all family dramas, forgiveness weaseled itself home. Over the next month of tending to Merle and his chauvinistic mouth, they got a little closer – as close as broken siblings could get, anyways. It put a little fight back in Daryl’s eyes, none of it hopeful but cocky. He had Merle’s back during whatever bouts of trouble he could, the most frequent ending with him hauling his bro’s lazy ass to bed when the shot glasses stacked too high at the local bar.

Daryl himself would never touch a bottle though, no matter how many times Merle insisted. His disgust of turning into a mean drunk like their old man was his anchor, the reasoning he turned to more times than he could count. With such strong commitment, Daryl was relieved when Merle eventually gave up trying to impulsively pour it down his throat like a college idiot every time his back was turned, allowing him to breathe easy for the coming week.

But no longer than that.

Three days into their typical weekend, Merle fell into old habits. He started staying out late, becoming distant and angry at the smallest things, which only meant one thing. He was running with the wrong people again. Daryl never considered himself a role model, being the younger Dixon, but he did know where his loyalties lied – to nobody but himself. Merle taught him that, to always consider his role as the black sheep of the flock and steer clear from shepherds looking for new members.

The last thing Daryl expected was for his brother to go back on his word and become one of those followers… that, and suddenly wind up _dead_. Shot in the chest with his own gun and left to bleed out down some back alley.

All the same, Daryl didn’t cry for him. He wanted to, to make an exception, but there wasn’t any time. No later than a handful of badges swarmed the scene, they came knocking in a heartbeat. Forty-eight hours later he was being chased through the rain, cornered and captured in the woods, then locked up without the promise of legality. There was no evidence to prove it was him – there wouldn’t have been any anyways because it wasn’t – but in such a small town everybody automatically assumed he did it. Like thieves, they had all said.

So yeah, Daryl didn’t even bat an eye when they stamped him a murderer and ignored him his rights as they threw him into the slammer like garbage. He kept them open with anger and a year’s worth of clinging to his final conversation with Merle, their banter forever pledged to memory like the tattoos on his very own body.

_“What the fuck did’ya do this time, Merle!”_

_“Nothin’ worth gettin’ yer pretty panties up in a bunch for, Darlene.”_

_“Yea? Then why’d I see some cop snoopin’ ‘round fer yer ugly ass up by Jess’ cabin, huh?”_

_“Cop? What cop? Ya didn’t talk to ‘im, did ya boy!”_

_“Hey, I didn’t say nothin’, bro.”_

_“Ya best pray ya didn’t. I don’ need ya stickin’ yer nose in a place that ain’t yers to be sniffin’, baby brother!”_

_“Man, I thought we were done keepin’ secrets from one ‘nother!”_

Apparently they weren’t, and that was the saddest bit and hardest part for Daryl to accept. Not being charged and found guilty for killing family, for murdering his brother, but because after all they’d been through his own flesh and blood didn’t trust him enough to ask for help.

“Asshole…” Daryl mutters at his reflection in the window of the transfer bus, feeling as dead on the inside as the forest he can see passing by like vague impressions in some shitty, contemporary painting.

The call for him to be moved to another state pen came in yesterday, him and a few other inmates. There wasn’t any real incentive for it, just a request over the phone, meaning he either had some friends in high places he didn’t know about or the staff’d finally gotten bored of him. Whichever of the two was truth, with seventy miles already into the trip it almost didn’t matter anymore.

Daryl sighs and hangs his head between his knees, just enough so he can rub at his face. Both of his wrists are cuffed, looped through the two-inch thick, prison transport belt that keeps cutting into his waist like a corset. But the guards ain’t seeing him complaining. They’d only beat him in for bitching.

_“What’d you call me, puto?”_

This time it ain’t Merle’s voice in his head, and Daryl glances left to see a rough and tough inmate glaring death row at him from across the aisle. He gives the man a squinted once over with a forced glare, not really giving a donkey’s ass that the guy looks like he’s about to snap if given the carrot or thinking about how if Merle were here he’d be throwing out some racist shit that’d get him punched.

“Mind yer own business, man.” Daryl grumbles, noticeably flicking the Mexican off. It’s a free country and there’s such a thing as freedom of speech, he thinks. Only thing that ain’t free… is _him_.

“Arneyo! Dixon!” A guard beyond the segregated compartment of the bus bangs his baton against the steel mesh in a warning. “We’ve still got a long drive ahead of us, _plenty_ of time to kill each other later.”

_“You lookin’ to go, cabron?”_

As Arneyo starts cussing at the guard instead of him, Daryl relaxes a little that he’s off the hook. He doesn’t speak that much Spanish, but _understanding_ on the other hand, he’s pretty sure there’s nothing being said that kids should repeat as he goes back to staring blankly out the window, watching as a hundred or so more trees pass in a blur and the sky changes from an evening blue to a brewing storm.

The wind picks up no more than five minutes later, and after a low rumble of thunder Daryl can hear droplets of rain begin pattering the tin roof of the bus in an assortment of hollow beats. Somewhere along the long stretch of roadside, he sees a sign zoom by, but at sixty miles an hour he doesn’t read much. All he manages to really catch are the words, _Exit 1 Mile_. As for what town he’s entering or leaving, it’s indefinite. But right now any exit’s as good as any, he figures. He’s ready to leave.

And find peace.

Sleep crosses Daryl’s mind quite suddenly and he can feel his eyes start to roll into the back of his head as time marches on. Boredom’s his main motivation, and he ends up nodding off between blinks. Lids heavier than usual, his head lolling to his chest. He swears he only blacks out once, but it’s never really the case, is it?

An unexpected bump in the road knocks him back to reality, and he stirs to find himself staring straight into a flash of lightning as the bus clips something, then swerves. He misses what it was that was hit through the craze of the windshield wipers up front, but in that instant he’s wide awake, awake enough to see the wheels leave the side of the road and extend beyond the railing, the front engine rut against a tree and turn the whole transport vehicle ninety-degrees before sending it tottering over the lip of a gully.

It isn’t until the bus slips further, descending into a cavernous drop that Daryl’s reminded of fear, sensing how his body leaves his seat and his head collides against the roof, making everything spin and his mind fade into nothing but a world of black and silence.

**Author's Note:**

> We promise Rick shows his pretty face in the next chapter... (☞ ՞ਊ ՞)☞ We hope you'll stay tuned.


End file.
